you have hung around here
long enough.

spirited through my sweatshirts
like dry grass. left pinpricks
in the jelly of my dreaming.

I hear you loving in the bodies
the darkness makes from piles
of clothes. I hear your sighing,
your sighing.

in the ceiling of my bedroom,
past the popcorn plaster,
there is a hole to the sky.

white cutout, black ladder.
blue fabric beyond cellophane
rippling to a box fan wind.

sometimes at night I see a sliver
of a hand—a gold eye.
the edge of some music.

we both are waiting now
for the time of leaving.

one night you will.
the hole will close like drying sand.

it will be late enough for a journey.
I will pretend to be asleep.

Cameron Gorman (she/they) is pursuing their MFA at Ohio State University. Cameron holds a B.S. in journalism from Kent State University and is an associate poetry editor for The Journal. They also read for New American Press. (Website: camerongormanwriter.wordpress.com)